Cheaper than Steak

Down in Do Tell, Arkansas, a few miles off the Interstate, where every farmboy’s arm tattoo is fully clothed and the Elks Club serves Petit Jean hot dogs with its Chili Suppers, Dolly’s Round Table customers were immersed in a righteous discussion.

The subject was rip off’s.

“Sorry I’m late guys,” said Charlie. “I had a low tire and couldn’t find a place to fill it. It’s plumb ridiculous. A few years back, when cars had wind wings and sun visors, and all the guys were panting over Rita Hayworth, if a feller had a low tire, he would pull into a gas station and air it up himself. And, it was free. Now you have to put a buck in a machine, grab the hose and race to the low tire before the compressor shuts down.”

“And,” said Bill, “If a person bought gas in those days, an attendant clad in a fresh work shirt and a visored cap, would call you ‘Sir,’ fill the tank, air all the tires, sweep out the floorboards, clean the windshield, kiss the wife and give her a water glass or a teacup for stopping in his station.”

“I like women," said Claude. "They had women attendants at the Fill ’n Flee stations in Tazewell, Tennessee, where I’m from."

Claude is a retired Clinch River hillbilly who got rich after a few years of abusing a government-subsidized allotment acre, growing wormy tobacco for the snuff trade. Claude retired from the wormy tobacco business and moved to Mountain Home, to enjoy the fresh air, buy a rowboat and live on organic trout.

“Tazewell’s Fill ‘n Flee girls would gas, air and sweep you,” said Clyde. “Plus, they’d change the baby, if you had one. A dollar tip would get you a battery charge. Two dollars, and she’d paint your house.”

“A box of Crunchy Oh’s, which I can toss down in about five minutes, cost me four bucks at the discount store yesterday,” complained Hiram who owned “Dud,” a sorry bull that had never sired an offspring.

“That’s about 20 cents on ounce. Made me mad enough to smoke a pickle. So, the packing bag is self sealing and the stuff inside makes a crunch when I chomp on it … so what! We’re talking about flavored air here, folks, and it’s four bucks a box.”

“I need a new truck,” he continued. “I checked on the price of an F-150 and figured out the per-ounce cost. It came to 42 cents. Now, if they can sell a truck — engine, transmission, wheels and all, for 42 cents an ounce, why would a box of flavored air …..?”

“I buy my hot dogs and steaks by the pound," said Dolly. “If we’re going to start pricing everything by the ounce and pound, just imagine a used car lot advertising a special — 2,000 Buick, 42 cents per pound. Cheaper Than Steak."

Moral: Don’t be angry with Dolly. She’s looking to raise money to buy a new freezer. That coin box on the restroom door is nothing more than a sign of the times.